


Five Times That Someone Broke Character, and One Time There Was No Character to Break

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Mission: Impossible (TV 1988)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Minor Character Death, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:12:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shannon hadn't planned on sticking to one IMF team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times That Someone Broke Character, and One Time There Was No Character to Break

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infinimato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinimato/gifts).



1

An unprepped dressing room is hardly an ideal place for a confrontation. There’s too little space, too many potential weapons, and only one exit. Not that the man waving a gun in Shannon’s face is expecting a physical altercation at all, but Shannon just did her make-up and needs to be on stage in 13 minutes. 12 minutes.

“You dumb broad,” the gunman snarls, “tell me where you put the diamonds or I’ll rip your face off!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Shannon tips over to the dressing table, getting a hand around the small can of anesthetic. “Get out of here or I’ll—”

“Or you’ll what? There’s a party on outside, no one can hear you.”

Neither of them expects the door to swing open without so much as a knock. Or maybe there was a knock, but it went unheard in the ruckus.

Standing in the doorway is Jim Phelps.

Shannon’s heard a great deal about Jim since joining IMF, but one thing her readings haven’t done justice on is how he has unflappability down to an art form.

Jim’s face is blank for one or two seconds as he processes the variables – Shannon, the gunman and his weapon – before he’s gawping, “Oh my goodness.” His hands jump up when the gun points at him, and he casts a hapless look at Shannon. “Ex-boyfriend?”

“He wishes,” Shannon says.

“Hey,” the gunman barks, “I’m doing the talking here!”

“Calm down now, son,” Jim drawls, “this lady here is an important commodity. I don’t care what your business is with her, but if she doesn’t go on in five there’ll be a _lot_ of unhappy people outside, and that'll will be as much your problem as it is mine.”

Which is just enough of stalling for Shannon to come up behind the guy and blast a dose of sleeping gas in his face. 

“He’s early,” Jim says, eyeing the fallen man thoughtfully. He’s a variable, but one can that be spun neatly back into place with a nudge. “It doesn’t matter, we can work with this. Are you all right?”

“Yes, thank you.” Shannon checks her reflection quickly. “Should I go on?”

“Keep to the plan, yes.” Jim frowns. “You go on, I’ll deal with him.” Shannon moves to leave, while behind her Jim pulls out his communicator, calling Nicholas up for the check-in.

Up until a few weeks ago, a second mission with Jim Phelps’ team wasn’t something Shannon would’ve put in the books.

Which is part of the problem, really. Most IMF agents move around, exchange tips and expertise, keep on their toes in a world of shifting dynamics. Then there’s Jim Phelps who, using whatever clout that may have moved the Secretary, has his own team. Shannon knows that that worries some people, which is understandable, but her limited experience with said team has done nothing but impress with their timing and teamwork.

Technically, the reason Shannon is even on this second mission at all is because the first went well. Otherwise Jim would have had to make do with four agents, or perhaps put the team on hold while he searched for a replacement. This kind of in with Jim’s team is a once in a lifetime opportunity, though Shannon would never put it in those words. It’s not _convenient_ , and Shannon has no interest in filling the space left behind by Casey Randall, an excellent agent all her own with an IMF legacy longer than Shannon’s own. No two agents are interchangeable, even if they have the same parts.

Still, Shannon isn’t surprised when Jim makes the offer.

It happens after the mission is completed, the broker handed over to the authorities and the real diamonds returned to their owner.

Jim draws Shannon aside when they’re clearing up the warehouse that’s their base, his proposal quick and to the point.

Shannon takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to replace her.”

Jim nods, as if this is what he wanted – or knew – he’d hear. “Good, because you wouldn’t be. I don’t know the extent of what you can do, but it would be interesting to find out. Though I have to warn you, this isn’t the Secret Service, and staying with one team can be a little… isolated.”

“I understand that. But in theory...” Shannon glances over Jim’s shoulder, and he follows her gaze to where Nicholas and Max are shoving gamely at each other while Grant attempts to untangle a mess of wires on the floor. Shannon waits until she has Jim’s attention again before continuing, “In theory nobody’s permanent. Anyone of your team could leave whenever they want.”

“That’s true.” Jim nods. It’s an amiable nod, except where wheels are turning behind the warm, _trust me_ eyes that have seen cities and people and countries all over the world saved. Shannon would learn a great deal here. “Shall I submit the paperwork, Ms. Reed?”

“I’d be honored, Mr. Phelps.”

 

* * *

 

2

First official mission as part of Jim’s team has Shannon tracking Grant down to a fancy little café overlooking the Monaco waterfront. This is not difficult, because when Grant Collier wants to be invisible, he’s invisible, but today he’s wearing shades and an ostentatious cowboy hat. Which is just as well, because Shannon has ostentatious fur-lined jacket to match.

Grant beams when he sees her, gesturing broadly for her to join him. “Waitress! Coffee for my fiancée!” He leans up, accepting the kiss Shannon drops on his cheek. “Good flight, darling?”

“Pleasant enough,” Shannon replies, settling into the seat next to his. “I hope this isn’t all you’ve been doing on your time away from home.”

“This?” Grant laugh heartilly. “This is just the matinee. Speaking of which, Donahue has been looking forward to meeting you. We’re invited to dinner at his penthouse tonight.”

“Wonderful.” Shannon nods a thank you when the waitress drops by with a VIP-quick tray. “I’m sure I can rustle something up for the occasion.”

The place is much closer to the docks than Shannon had expected, the view of the ships spectacular. Max should be inside with the other workers, helping move cargo around and already checking Donahue’s manifests, if they’re lucky. Not that luck has thatmuch of a role in their line of work, but there’s no harm in hoping for it.

Might as well enjoy the coffee, too, which is what Shannon does. “What’re you reading?”

“Oh.” Grant blinks, startled, and the smile that follows is a little sheepish. “Just the news.”

Which isn’t any reason to look like he’d been caught doing something naughty. Shannon carefully swivels the paper around, noting the article plastered well over half the page. A previously-thought inactive arms dealer has been brought in by authorities on charges over, among other things, a conspiracy to assassinate a political leader.

“Keeping score,” Grant says.

“Keeping score?” Shannon’s gaze drops back down. “Oh. Keeping _score_.”

Not that the experience of reading the news hasn’t changed profoundly once when Shannon first started this line of work. Being part of the news does that to a person, along with the bone-chilling awareness of everything else that’s happened in the world that wasn’t privy to IMF intervention.

They’d covered that in training. The world may be finite but so are the people in it. Focus on the mission you have.

It works as long as the mission is active, but after that there’s the rest of the world. No matter how big the target and how far their fall, there’s always someone else.

She’d never thought of it this way, though. It figures that Grant would; if his file is to be believed, he practically grew up in this life. Shannon’s worked with Barney Collier once, after the first time he’d returned to IMF, but she’d been too polite to ask how the Collier men managed.

“How do you…?” Shannon trails off.

“Patterns.” It’s a vague answer, but the glint in Grant’s eye suggests carefully-banked excitement. Grant’s expertise is tech work, and techies that Shannon's known stick to gadgets in their off-duty hobbies, but she can just easily picture him poring over news bulletins instead of a computer, dissecting the unseen stories behind the headlines to where other agents and agencies may have had a hand.

A hobby of positive reinforcement. 

“This coffee is a _tad_ burnt,” Shannon declares. She flicks his eyes sideways, and Grant notices the tall woman walking towards the cafe.

“Now now, sweetie,” Grant practically bellows, “I will get you something nice to wear tonight, that’ll be so much better than the coffee.”

The woman – Donahue’s assistant – makes a face in their direction, and Grant practically leaps out of his chair with a, “Ah, I must introduce you!”

Shannon forgets about the patterns hobby, but Grant brings it up later, to her delight.

 

* * *

 

3

Shannon has worked with perhaps a dozen IMF combination teams before, and as far as professionalism goes, Jim’s crew isn’t different from the others. This means that despite the fact that this boy’s club has been together for a while (excluding Jim, who is a class of his own) their efficiency is such that Shannon doesn’t need to struggle to find her footing.

Basically, the adjustment period is minimal.

Jim takes point for that, mostly, to which Shannon isn’t surprised by how far he takes the responsibility he feels for the agents under him. Grant is passionate and excitable over things that interest him, while Nicholas is sharp and always up for a debate. This makes the long hours of prep work and planning more interesting, for starters.

There’s Max, though. Max is quiet, good-natured if somewhat sparse with words, only offering the occasional suggestion while the rest of them hash out their various plans.

It hasn’t missed Shannon's attention that Max hasn’t taken a prominent face role after the Berezan mission, and when Shannon asks, Jim tells her that that’s normal, that he’s usually their invisible man, switching between roles or setting things up in the background.

Shannon wonders if Max can’t stop associating her with how they’d lost Casey. If, perhaps, she is a reminder of how things used to be. She doesn’t mention this to Jim, of course, because Max hasn’t done anything so crass as to let it affect his work.

Still, she wonders.

At least, she wonders until the mission in Prague, where they’re tracing someone IMF believes is trading sensitive government information.

Shannon’s here as an auditor at the hotel, moving freely through the building and identifying weak points for Grant’s use. She’s in the security room, reviewing CCTV recordings, when she spots Max in the live feed of the loading bay.

His location isn’t the problem. Max is supposed to be there, but he’s _not_ supposed to be throwing a guy into a stack of boxes in what looks like a displaced bar brawl. As Shannon watches, security responds quickly, pulling the two apart – although the other man escapes before he can be taken in.

“You’ll be taking that gentleman to the holding room, yes?” Shannon tells the head of security. “After you’re done, I wish to have a word with him.”

The holding room is crude. There’s a camera but no sound, so she and Max angle their faces to where the words will be difficult to parse if anyone's watching.

Shannon starts, “Are you—”

“You need to get Jim,” Max says urgently. “Tell him that it’s Wolsky, he’ll know who I’m talking about. Shannon, he recognized me. My cover’s gone and he knows we’re here, so he’s gonna bolt.”

“All right.” Shannon thinks quickly. “Does he know all of us?”

“Jim and Grant, yeah, definitely,” Max says. “Nicholas, I don’t think so. He definitely wouldn’t know you.”

From that point, the mission is modified. Nicholas and Shannon move forward, and Jim turns Eric Wolsky’s familiarity with them into an advantage. Max, for his part, pulls back and stays out of it until they need an extra pair of hands at the final setpiece.

At one point Grant tells Shannon quietly, “They used to work together. Eric and Max. He’s not IMF, but there were a couple of shared missions.” Shannon nods but doesn’t press for more.

Frankly, anything that’s relevant to the mission, Jim will share. Anything beyond that is Max’s history to tell, if he wants.

Shannon’s surprised when he does.

Post-mission drinks aren’t standard operating procedure, but this time Grant insists. They end up in a small, intimate club on the edge of the city, which is apparently a place Jim had visited years ago and has fond memories of.

Shannon’s genuinely enjoying the music when Max sidles up next to her. “Hey,” he says, offering a lopsided smile that’s almost embarrassed. “Sorry ‘bout the... Well. Should’ve reacted better, not like some kid out of graduation.”

Shannon smiles behind the raised rim of her glass. “If you’re looking for a put down, I think you’re at the wrong place.”

Max relaxes. It’s not an odd reaction, because Shannon’s been watching him go from Jim to Grant to Nicholas all night, reaffirming each relationship as he goes along.

“Anyone can go rogue,” Max says suddenly. He’s frowning down at his half-filled glass, but no one else is in earshot so this must be meant for Shannon. “Anyone. I forget that sometimes. It might seem impossible now, but the future has a way of sneaking up on you, chipping at you until – until you’re someone else. I’m not as smart as Grant, or clever like Nicholas, but I can be dangerous.”

“ _All_ of us are dangerous,” Shannon tells him. “That’s the point.”

“Well, Grant gets… emotional.” Max’ eyes flicker towards the bar, where Grant and Nicholas are seemingly debating over how to concoct a specific drink. “And Nicholas has his students to think about. But you’re new. You have more distance.”

Shannon frowns.

“I want to make a failsafe.” Max’s expression is very calm. “I want you to hold it. Jim has his own ways, but you’re…” He pauses, shrugging when the words won’t come to him.

“Wolsky was your friend,” Shannon says. “If he could turn, you think you might, too.”

Max cringes. “Yeah.”

Shannon takes another slow slip from her glass, perhaps to cover how floored she is. “I’d be honored, Max.”

 

* * *

 

4

Shannon can take a lot of things. _Has_ taken a lot of things, even before she’d joined IMF, though she’d never undo any single one of those moments if it’d meant undoing any of her team’s successes.

There are still lines, though, few and scattered as they are.

Nicholas is taking point in this mission, a potential buyer for a drug that could change the world. He’s charming and irritable, mingling with the other dangerous men who are in town for the auction.

Shannon doesn’t even have a singular role for this one. Most of her work is in setting up the pieces before they’re brought into play. This involves her walking the halls of the mansion where the auction is taking place and staying as unnoticeable as the rest of the staff.

The first act goes well. Shannon successfully plants the cameras, drugs the whiskey, and stalls the security detail when Grant is finishing up the unscheduled renovations in the attic.

But unexpected things happen, and the strength of the team lies in how they respond.

In this case, a man – an arms dealer, Shannon recalls, relatively small fry – calls to her from the half-open doorway of a room. “Hey, hey miss! We need clean-up in here!”

There’s no mistaking the stench of blood and stomach fluids. Shannon almost falls over her cleaning cart in faking panic, but then her eyes register the details of the fallen, dead, _young_ body and something colder than panic clogs up in her chest.

“She won’t talk, yeah?” someone says.

The room contains a conspiracy of men. One of them nudges Shannon towards the body and she falls to her first impulse, whirling around and snapping, “Don’t touch me!”

“God damn it,” someone else mutters. “Felix’s going to get wind of this.”

A hand grabs Shannon’s arm. She doesn’t have to fake struggling against it, and only remembers herself when she sees that it’s Nicholas.

He eyes her dubiously. “No, he won’t, I’ll make sure of it. This lovely lady here is just going to clean this up for us nice and tidy, and there won’t be any problems. Am I right, sweetheart?” Shannon says nothing, and Nicholas’ grip tightens. “Am I _right_?”

The cool of Nicholas’ eyes is enough to center Shannon, but barely. She clings to that as she drops to her knees to do the task asked of her, closing the girl’s eyes. Her name is Lydia, nineteen, worked in kitchen and knew nothing of the real danger under this roof.

“I’ll deal with this,” Nicholas declares once Shannon’s done, pulling her out of the room while one of the other men guffaws.

They manage to get to the shed behind the mansion, and Shannon lasts until the door is closed.

“I’m sorry,” Nicholas says quietly while Shannon hyperventilates and presses her fists against her sternum. “We’ll get them, Shannon. We’ll nail them.”

“Don’t tell Jim.” Shannon drags the wig off her head and sighs. “I’ll need a little more time to get ready, but I’ll be in the garden when Grant comes in.”

“We can get Max—”

“No, no, don’t. I can get back in.”

“Jim won’t blame you,” Nicholas says, with such kindness that sets Shannon’s teeth on edge. “We can find another way to get—”

“I _want_ to do this.” Shannon catches Nicholas’ gaze, holds it. “Trust me, Nicholas. _Help_ me.”

Nicholas stares at her for a moment, and then makes a small nod. “Calming exercise. Here.” He moves around in the small space, guides her hands up to his shoulders. “Look at me. Back straight. Take a deep breath.”

Shannon obeys, but her lungs are tight, her breath shaky. Nicholas is the best actor of all of them; it’s one thing to pretend to be someone else, it’s another to hedge your survival making people believe he’s someone they already _know_. If anyone would know how to put yourself away, even if only for a few minutes, it’d be this man right here. He can get her there.

She reminds herself that it’s not weakness to be afraid, or let someone else see her afraid.

 

* * *

 

5

Then there’s the flipside.

Things go dangerously wrong sometimes. The circumstance of Shannon’s addition to this team is evidence of that. It’s just the simple truth that no matter how exemplary Jim’s leadership, cohesive their teamwork, and thorough their technological and psychological planning, variables of reality bounce in directions that they don’t predict.

Sometimes they lead to the secret police changing their patrol route ahead of schedule, and blocking their primary exit strategy. Sometimes they lead to Nicholas having to drop his mask and fall to a back-up identity while still in hostile territory.

Sometimes they lead to Shannon being unable to do anything more but stand aside while they take Nicholas away for questioning. And hope that Max and Grant got out all right.

“You will talk to him,” the Captain tells Shannon. Behind him, men are dragging Nicholas back to the sparse bed, dropping him unceremoniously onto the mattress. “Make him better, ya? He is US spy, and you talk to him, so he will talk to us. You make him understand is in his best interest to talk to us.”

Shannon nods, hands fisted tight around the cotton of her nurse’s skirt.

Nicholas’ skin is hot to the touch. She barks orders at a real nurse for bandages and clean water. A fever can be dealt with, as can the cuts and bruises. 

“I’m in a lot of trouble,” Nicholas laughs. He winces when Shannon dabs at the red lines around his neck. “A lot of trouble.”

“It’ll be all right,” Shannon replies. “Please be still and let us help you.” Please be still and wait for the rescue.

Because there will be a rescue. 

Shannon stalls when she can. She sabotages the general’s car, messes up their phones, drops laxatives in their drinks.

But it’s not enough. Nicholas still gets taken away and brought back lesser each time.

Two days in, Shannon wonders if the Secretary has already disavowed them. She doesn’t mention it to Nicholas, but he has to be thinking about it in his lucid moments. They look at each other sometimes, when the hours stretch long and the hospital walls press in, wondering whether Jim’s come up against a wall that cannot be breached.

Assuming Jim’s alive, that is.

“I’m…” Nicholas trails off, struggling for breath. No guards nearby, but Shannon draws close to him anyway. “I’m going to die here.”

It takes Shannon a moment to realize why it feels like her stomach’s caved in. That’s Nicholas’ real voice, matching the real fear glazed over his eyes.

“No, you won’t.” Shannon holds his hand; that’s all right, nurses do that.

Nicholas blinks at nothing.

“Well.” Shannon clears his throat, forcing herself to remember the accent she can’t afford to lose. “Shall I tell you a story, then?”

Shannon saw another nurse doing this the other day, sitting with an ill man and speaking to him as long as he can hear. It’s not like they’re going anywhere, anyway, and although talking doesn’t make Shannon feel any less useless, Nicholas should have a familiar voice to listen to.

“There is a legend, in my village, of a man who inherited a wooden chest from his distant relative,” Shannon starts. “Anyone would look upon it and say that it was a normal chest, but when the man reached a certain age, it began to talk to him. It began to tell him secrets of faraway places and people, and of the things they’d done and were going to do.”

Nicholas frowns a little, head twisting so that he can see Shannon better.

“The man realized that having the chest was a gift as much as a burden.” Shannon smiles when she feels Nicholas’ try to squeeze her hand. “For knowledge of such things comes together with responsibility.”

She continues into a mess of half-truths and revisionist history. Missions of the past entwined with fairytales and folklore, and Shannon doesn’t have a goal more meaningful than to give Nicholas something to hold on to. Even if Jim can’t or doesn’t come for them, they should remember that they chose this life for a reason.

Halfway through a story-within-a-story about a princess who claimed she had her own magic chest and told false stories, the ward door swings open and boots come stomping in.

“What is the meaning of this?” the man barks.

It’s Max, wearing a full uniform and a sneer. Shannon holds her breath.

“This man is a criminal,” Max declares. The junior officer that’s followed him into the room bumbles and stammers, giving Max the opportunity to push a small note under a fold of Nicholas’ bedding. “This is a waste of our resources. He shall be shipped to Siberia.”

Shannon ducks her head, shies away when Max leers at her, and later retrieves the note.

She can’t afford to smile, but she squeezes Nicholas’ ankle reassuringly.

 

* * *

 

+1

The resort lobby is quiet save a couple chasing after a small child, and an elderly man who’s playing chess with himself. Shannon smiles at said elderly fellow when she passes on the way to the front desk, her luggage clicking on the wooden panels behind her. The air is warm, and the view of the beach beyond the balconies enticing.

“Shannon Reed?” A slight ruffling of cards, and then the receptionist snaps back up with efficient smile. “Here is your key. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” she replies. “I hope so, too.”

Shannon doesn’t take too much time to unpack. She doesn’t need to be prepared to drop everything and leave at a moment’s notice, but some habits aren’t worth deviating from. She merely puts her toiletries in the bathroom, grabs her wrap and shades before heading out.

The beach has just enough people for the noise to be ambient instead of stifling. She spots Grant easily; man cannot be invisible when he's shirtless, that's for sure.

Grant doesn’t turn around when she approaches, but Shannon can see the grin stretch along his cheek. “Three days earlier than you said you’d be.”

“Can’t fault a girl for trying.” Shannon settles down next to him, legs out and one ankle hooked over the other. “Where’s Max?”

“About a half mile out, by my estimate.”

Shannon slips her shades on. Now she’s able to spot one figure distinct from the others that are riding the waves, blond hair slicked back against his head as he whoops. Grant snickers when Max wipes out.

This is strange. Not unpleasant by any means, but still strange.

Shannon knows that Jim keeps in touch with almost all the agents he’s worked with over the years. He’s visiting a couple of them right now back on the mainland, but Jim’s been in the business for decades. Shannon remembers everyone she’s ever worked with, but she can’t recall ever sitting next to one of them on a beach blanket and discussing points to be awarded to another agent for their performance on the surf.

“Do you do this often?” Shannon asks.

“Depends on what you mean by often.” Grant has a couple of newspapers next to him, interesting pages pulled out for Shannon to look at it. “I suggested the first trip, at Jim’s recommendation. It was nice. Team building and all that. Then Casey mentioned a little village in France she used to go to with her husband, so… there was that.”

“And this time Max wanted to go surfing.”

“Precisely.” Grant gets up onto his knees, arms out as he semaphores a message at Max.

Out on the shoreline, Max waves at Shannon, pauses, and then flips the bird at Grant.

Grant laughs and settles back down. “My father’s somewhere in Europe. No contact right now. Max’s only family was his brother, and… well, you know how Max is.”

Shannon nods. “I was just visiting my mother. She recognized me for a couple of minutes. It was a nice.”

“Yeah, that can be tough.”

Shannon raises an eyebrow. “You’ve read my file.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn't tough.”

She’d thought that Grant was a laid-back guy; relaxed, inasmuch as they can be relaxed. But out here, under sunlight and mandated vacation time, he’s almost someone else. Someone Shannon wouldn’t have thought twice about sitting next to in a café, perhaps share a cup of coffee. When he smiles, Shannon finds herself smiling back. Then there’s Max, who’s now running in darting circles across the sand, surfboard in one arm and making faces at a pair of small children who are making sandcastles and laughing at him. Just another guy goofing around at the beach.

“This seat taken?”

Shannon and Grant look up. Nicholas is leaning on the cane – a gift from Jim, still shiny – but his face is flushed, and his smile bright.

“Well, look who decided to join the cool club,” Grant laughs. “Pick a seat.”

“I believe I shall.” Nicholas has brought a little stool with him, and he sets it up now next to Shannon. “Done with therapy for the day. Doctor said I could get some air.

“I doubt he meant this far,” Shannon admonishes, “and by yourself.”

“Look, if you’re going to choose to holiday a stone’s throw from where I’m staying, you can’t blame me for the obvious consequences.” Nicholas settles into his seat, and declines the tumbler than Grant offers him. “I knew you missed me, Grant, but this is ridiculous.”

“It was Max’s idea,” Grant protests.

Shannon grins. “It really was.”

Max trots up just then, shaking water droplets from his mane. It makes Shannon think of an oversized golden retriever, right down to the pleased grin. “What was my idea?”

Shannon thought it might feel like work to be here, after the months of seeing the same faces and knocking the same minds, but it’s not. It’s freeing instead, being able to laugh around people whom she doesn’t have to censor herself for. Better than that is the realization that she has permission to see the other angles of these gentlemen – which had been doled out so carefully in the missions of the past year but now open for the taking.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Shannon says. It sounded reasonable in her head, but comes out somewhat awkward. “I didn’t…”

Nicholas saves her with a firm, “Thank _you_ for coming, Shannon.”

“Because I’m an asset to the team?” Shannon says lightly.

“It’s not just a team,” Grant replies.

“Pardon me,” Shannon says archly, “I believe I’m the newest member here. I think I’ll make my own decision on what to call all of you.”

 _All of us_ , she doesn’t say yet, but it just might get there.

The moment is broken when Grant gets to his feet and challenges Max to a swim-off, and then the pair of them are shoving at each other as they race for the water. Nicholas, for his part, merely pulls out a paperback from his jacket and opens it up. Perfectly at ease, free from any expectation beyond enjoying their time off.

Shannon lies down and exhales. Yes, she could do this.


End file.
